


Rose of Salt

by theherocomplex



Series: Guitar and Video Games [14]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Apritello, F/M, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4258167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April steals a quiet moment for herself and Donnie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose of Salt

**Author's Note:**

> This Interlude takes place in the time between chapters nine and ten of [Gates of Summer](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2635211), but you don't need to read that fic to understand this one. 
> 
> This is pure self-indulgent Apritello smut. April is 26 and Donnie is 25, and everything is wonderful for them here.

"All finished?" Donnie asks, as April lowers her mug. The last fragrant sip of tea rolls down her throat, warm and sweet, and she nods. He gives her a shy smile as he scoops the mug out of her hand and sets it to one side along with his. "So, I guess it's time for b—" 

She stops him with a kiss. It's a chaste kiss, no tongue, not even a playful nip at his mouth, but when she backs away, April finds Donnie watching her with a soft, surprised look that's become all too familiar to her over the past two weeks. Donnie _always_ looks like this when she kisses him, or touches him unexpectedly. He looks like this when she nestles closer in the mornings, or when she brings his lunch to the lab and then eats her own sitting on his lap. But it's a happy kind of surprise, even if it doesn't linger too long and the stress lines reappear around his mouth and eyes too soon, so April keeps touching him, keeps kissing him, just to see him look at her with that warmth again. 

Not that she thinks she would _stop_ touching him, unless he asked her to. April's no stranger to Donnie's body; for ten years, she's fought beside him, laughed and mourned beside him, and she knows how strong he is, and how steady. His body is a wonder, half miracle and half science, and she wishes she could tell him so — but this is Donnie, and he wouldn't know how to believe her, not yet. She can feel his bewildered doubt, just beneath his wonder: _why me? This can't be real, not when I'm what I am._  

He almost never touches her first. 

"— time for bed," Donnie finishes a moment later. He's still smiling, but the candlelight catches the furrow that's starting to take up permanent residence in his forehead. He doesn't look old, but he looks tired. More than that — he looks _weary_ , an exhaustion that goes deeper than his bones. With everything in her, April wants to take it from him, and carry it, even for a little while, just so he can rest. She can't, and even if she could, Donnie wouldn't let her. 

She reaches up to smooth the furrow with her thumb, not missing how Donnie leans ever so slightly into her touch. "Bed sounds great," she says. "But I'm not all that tired yet."

"Oh." Donnie frowns, then leans back to look at her. "Well, I — is there something you want to do? I could…" He makes a small gesture with his left hand, something between confusion and an earnest desire to please. 

April smiles to herself, and feels a flush start on her cheeks and begin to work its way downward. He couldn't have given her a better entrance — _ha, entrance, get it_ , says her inner Casey Jones — if he tried. "Well, I had a few ideas," she says, pitching her voice low, and reaching up to slide her arms around his neck. She doesn't kiss him, not yet, just presses the foreheads together and breathes. Donnie's smell fills her, leather and ink and oil and a cool, fern-like scent that she only catches when she's this close. "I know we said we weren't rushing, but…" She doesn't finish the sentence, just lets her words fade into silence and watches his face. 

Donnie's eyes widen and his mouth goes slack, but a second later he has himself under control, his face neutral. There's still an eager gleam in his eyes, far down, but if April weren't watching for it, she might have missed it. No missing the telltale stutter in his heartbeat, though, as it speeds up against her chest. "April," he says. "We don't…" He pauses, breathing slowly. 

She could interrupt him with another kiss, but where the last kiss was playful, this one would silence him. If Donnie has any doubts, any hesitation, April can't cut off his way to express them. Right now, with her arms around his neck and her chest and belly pressed into his plastron, she's gone as far as she can without a signal from him. The next step is his to take. 

April may think Donnie and Donnie's mind and Donnie's body are wonders; she may lay awake early in the mornings before Donnie first stirs, and think about what he would do if she stroked his thighs to wake him; she may want him to use every ounce of that steady, unyielding strength to pin her to his mattress — but what she does _not_ want is for Donnie to feel like he has to _let_ her do or take anything. They're partners, or they're nothing. 

_Congratulations, April_ , she thinks, as Donnie's hands gently rise to rest on her lower back. _You've just leveled up in maturity._

"Are you — are you sure?" Donnie asks. April could cry from relief; she leans a little harder into him and doesn't bother to hide her smile. "I don't want you doing anything — and we don't have to, I'm happy the way things are, so it's okay, really. You don't have to…" One hand leaves her back, and Donnie waves at himself, a motion April only glimpses out of the corner of her eye. "You don't have to," he says, very quietly, his eyes sliding away from hers. "It's fine, April." 

"I know I don't," she says, aware of how shaky her footing is here. She stays still, and measures her words against his heartbeat. "But…you know I want you, right?" 

Donnie nods, but it's reluctant, and he's still not looking at her. His hand rests on her back so lightly, so carefully, as if she's a fragile, precious thing he can hardly bear to touch. 

"Donnie." 

He nods again. His eyelids fall low over his eyes, and even the tides of his emotions feel distant and numbed. He's locked himself away from her. April sighs, but keeps her arms where they are, looped around his neck. 

"All of you," she says, in a whisper, and in time with the leap in his heartbeat, there's a flicker deep inside his head — not just heat, but desire. _Yes_ , April thinks, and smiles as she slides closer to straddle his lap. 

Donnie's eyes skid back to hers, his heart erratic against hers. Not that he's alone in that; feeling the muscles of his thighs shift under hers sends that flush all the way down, and now there's heat between her legs and peaking her nipples. 

"Would a…practical demonstration be appropriate?" she asks, without trying to make her voice sound husky. It just comes out like that, a low, rich whisper that makes Donnie shudder under her. She laughs, a throaty sound she's never heard herself make before, and turns her head to kiss him under the jaw. 

"A practical demonstration of what?" Donnie asks. He tilts his head back to allow her better access, his hand tightening in her shirt. "Do you have a theory that needs to be proven?" 

April smiles into his skin. "I think I do, as a matter of fact." She swallows hard — she has to go slow, she has to be careful, but oh, _god_ , he smells so good and her skin is already buzzing — and slowly, slowly, licks a long, wet line along the curve of Donnie's throat. 

"Oh my _god_." Donnie groans, his hand a fist pressed into her back. "This must be a hell of a theory, April." He's trying to sound composed, but his voice shakes a little, and when April pulls back to watch his face, his eyes are hot on her face. "I hope you've got the evidence to back it up." 

She pouts. "You _dare_ to impugn my integrity as a scientist, Donnie?" He laughs in her face, eyes crinkling and grinning wide, and April enjoys the honest, bright happiness that fills his head — and hers — before she plants both hands on his plastron and shoves him flat on his shell. 

"Oof!" He's still laughing when she follows him down and kisses him, her hands cradling either side of his face. This time, she doesn't bother to be chaste. She doesn't even bother being careful — she plunders his mouth, her tongue sliding against his clumsily as she lets out all her frustration and need into the kiss, as if Donnie could finally understand how badly she _wants_ him if she kisses him well enough. 

The kiss doesn't end till they're both gasping. Then April pulls away — pleased beyond words when Donnie whines a little, deep in his throat, as her mouth leaves his — and sits up, still straddling him. 

"Nice…evidence," Donnie manages. "I humbly apologize for my harsh words." 

"Apology accepted," April says, a little breathlessly. She tries to concentrate long enough to figure out a next step, but her head is full of sensation: the hard prick of her nipples, the heavy hand still clenched in her shirt, the way Donnie kissed her back, like the room could have been on fire and he wouldn't have stopped for a second. "Now," she adds, when her mind is clear enough for her to think something beyond _oh god, Donnie_ , "hold still." 

"What — oh." She smirks down at him as she starts to tug off his pads and wraps, and he offers her a wavering smile back. She usually undresses him once they finish their tea, and then rubs his shoulders as he talks through his work for the day, but she's always careful and deliberate. Now she just pulls off leather and cotton and tosses it all to one side, her movements jerky and urgent. 

Donnie lets her maneuver him into place silently, watching her with huge, dark eyes, right up until she twists around to pull off his knee pads. She manages the first pad without an issue, but loses her balance halfway through the second and nearly slips off Donnie's lap before she pulls it free. The only reason why she stays upright is Donnie's free hand steadying her waist, his thumb barely an inch below her left breast. 

She turns around slowly, covering his hand with hers as she moves. The sensations overloading her brain can't be all hers; some of them must be Donnie's too, his desire, his need. How else would she be so aware of her own weight on his thighs, or of the thinness of her shirt? 

Her shirt. That needs to go. 

Holding Donnie's eyes, she lets her hand fall from his, and plucks at the hem of her shirt. Donnie goes so still underneath her that April wonders briefly if he's holding his breath, then lifts her shirt over her head in one smooth movement. She has a moment to worry about the scar on her shoulder, and how Donnie will react when he sees it, before he inhales sharply. 

"Oh," Donnie says, so quietly April barely hears him. "Oh, _April_." 

He's looking at her face. 

Well, not _just_ her face. He's staring at her breasts too, licking his lips and not even trying to hide it, but his eyes always come back to hers, so full of love and yearning that April can't say anything at all. She can barely breathe. No one has ever looked at her like this, so desperately and with so much want — and yet Donnie holds still, not touching her, just waiting for her. Giving her the choice. 

The absurd urge to cry sweeps through her — because no one has ever looked at her like this, except Donnie, and no one ever will again. But that's fine, she tells herself, because Donnie will never stop. 

She bends down to kiss him again. Slowly, lingeringly, tasting him as much as she can before she sits up again. This time, his hands slide over her ribs and curve upwards, his thumbs tracing the warm, thin skin under her breasts. 

"Yes," April whispers, her head falling back. She wants to speed him along and feel his mouth and his tongue on her nipples — just the thought makes her wet, and if he actually _does_ touch her like that, she thinks she might soak through the cotton shorts she's wearing — but she keeps still, a task that's harder and harder to manage as Donnie's thumbs trace slow circles over her nipples. 

"You're —" Donnie's throat clicks as he swallows. When April looks down, he's watching her face again, still yearning. "You're so beautiful," he says. 

April tries to reply — she should say something, anything, even a sigh would be better than nothing — but no sound comes out. But Donnie — Donnie understands. Donnie always does. And he keeps touching her, his hands infinitely gentle as he cups and strokes her breasts, teasing her nipples with light pinches that leave her wriggling and gasping. 

"Donnie…" she moans, half out of her mind already as he keeps up his slow touches. "You — oh _god._ This feels amazing." 

"You do," he says, his voice rough. "You have no idea how — you're so warm, April." He hisses and shifts under her, thigh muscles bunching. April grinds down against his lap, head thrown back again, and feels Donnie squeeze his thighs together as his breathing goes harsh and labored. 

"Are you all right?" she asks, stopping his hands with her own. "Should I move? Am I hurting you?" 

"Oh, god, no." Donnie laughs shakily, and slides one hand from under hers to stroke her cheek. "Not at all, it's just…I'm a little…well." He laughs again and looks away, his features clouding for a brief moment. 

Well, indeed. April isn't so lacking in self-control that she can't figure out what's happening, and why Donnie's worry seems to be making a return. 

And she did, after all, promise a practical demonstration. 

She rolls off his lap, pretending not to see the disappointment Donnie tries to hide, and stretches out on her side next to him. "A little…bothered?" she asks, before nuzzling into his neck, to lick and suck and scrape her teeth against his skin. Donnie moans, his hands moving restlessly over her, and lifts his head to give her better access. "I think I can help with that."

"April," Donnie says, his voice sharp, as she slides her hand between his thighs. "You — I don't —" 

She pauses. "You just have to say so," she says. "And we stop. No questions. But I want to — I want to feel you." She licks her lips, the space between her legs throbbing as she thinks how best to put this, and says, "I want to feel your cock, Donnie." 

Donnie moans, lifting his hips toward her hand. She takes that as tacit permission to insinuate her hand along his thighs, inching toward the thick, leathery skin that covers his cock. 

It's softer now, swollen too, with the head of his cock just beginning to slide out. "How much self-control is it taking to keep from dropping down?" she asks, with her mouth at his ear. Donnie lets out another strangled moan as she starts to stroke the head of his cock, his hips grinding into her hand. "Wouldn't it feel so good to — oh, my god." 

His cock slides into her hand, slick, silken, and much, much thicker than she expected. _Jesus Christ,_ she thinks, a little dazed _, I won't be able to walk for a week_. 

The thought does nothing to make the idea less attractive. She strokes his cock, from root to tip, and feels Donnie's hips jerk in response. His cock isn't just thick, it's _long_ , and heavy, with a pointed, flared head and a fat base that her hand can't quite fit around. 

_Well_ , she thinks, stifling a giggle in the curve of Donnie's neck, _he_ is _proportional._

Her position makes it hard to find a good rhythm, and the slick fluid coating Donnie's cock means her hand keeps slipping whenever she tries to speed up — not that Donnie seems to mind, or notice. He's moaning behind closed lips, with his eyes screwed shut and every muscle in his body tight. And that, even more than his hands on her breasts, leaves April breathless. 

She heard Donnie like this before, months ago, when she slipped into the lab for a study session and found Donnie at his desk, one hand on his cock, stroking hard and panting. Close enough to reach out and touch him, close enough to reach out and finish what he started — but she hadn't. More time wasted. 

Donnie would be humiliated if he knew she had accidentally spied on him, and so she'll never say anything, but an obscure sense of needing to make it up to him brushes her, gently. He waited so long, until the moment she was ready, and he would keep waiting, always leaving the choice up to her. 

So, why not make tonight about him? 

Her body protests the idea; now that Donnie is squirming and thrusting into her hand as his moans get louder and more desperate, it wants all of him. He'd feel wonderful inside her, stretching her until it almost, almost hurts, bringing them as close as they could ever be. 

There'll be other nights for that. Tonight is for Donnie. 

Just like that, April finds her rhythm: slow, excruciatingly slow. And, just like that, Donnie can't keep his moans behind his teeth any longer. He's not loud — too many years as a ninja for that — but the harder he tries to be quiet, the more noises leak through, every one of them strained and breathless. 

"Doing okay?" April whispers. She kisses his cheek, then his jaw, a weak little half-sob her reward. "Donnie?" 

"I —" He opens his eyes, his pupils blown so wide April can barely see his irises. "I don't — _god!_ " 

The last word is almost a shout. April hides her face in his neck again, smirking as she twists her wrist at the head of his cock one more time. "See?" she purrs, sliding one leg over his to pin him in place. "I told you it would feel good." 

" _April_ …" Donnie whines, his eyes closing as he gives in and starts thrusting hard into every stroke. "It feels — it feels —" 

"Come on, Donnie." April presses her mouth to the hollow under his jaw, running her tongue over his pulse. Donnie lets out a strangled yell, his cock growing even slicker in her hand. "You can tell me how it feels. Please?" She wants to know, so badly, even though she can feel his arousal in the back of her mind, and a dim echo of his pleasure, too. "Donnie?" 

He shakes his head, mouth slack, a low noise rumbling in his chest that makes April grind helplessly against his leg, moaning herself. It's not enough — not enough friction, not enough of Donnie — and she only realizes she's making high impatient whines when Donnie cuts them off by kissing her, both hands tilting her head up to his. And then April's lost, drowning in two currents of pleasure — hers, and Donnie's. She feels her own hand on his cock, her thighs pressed to his, and the blazing-hot skin of her breasts pressed to his plastron. 

It's too much. It's overload. His tongue rasps against hers, his heart pounds against her breastbone, and it's all part of one heavy wave of sensation, threatening to drag her under. 

_I could get off like this_ , April thinks, with her last few functioning brain cells. Just a few more seconds, and then — 

No. She can wait. 

With a deep, shuddering breath, April pulls away, and stills her hand. 

"What —" Donnie sounds like he's choking, eyes wide and almost fearful. "Did I — I'm sorry, did I do something wrong?" 

_Oh, Donnie_. April kisses him again, lightly, her hand sliding down his cock to rest on his thigh. "No," she says, with another kiss. "I just — I want to try something." 

It occurs to her, in the space between one kiss and the next, that what she's doing may feel amazing to Donnie — she's sure that he has no complaints — but it's something he could do for himself. If she wants tonight to be special, well — she needs to escalate things a bit. 

"Try?" Donnie blinks at her, his hands still cradling her head, still gentle, even though she can feel his frustration and need building in her head. It's not as strong now, but the urge to sink into it and let Donnie's pleasure carry her away is overpowering. 

April nods, smiling as she wriggles out of his grip and down his body, a line of kisses marking her path down his plastron and over his thighs. 

"Uh, April?" Curiosity wars with need in Donnie's voice, and April bites down on a laugh. Even now, with her mouth inches away from his cock, Donnie still wants to know _why_. "What are you —" 

She debates pulling the blanket over her head, and decides against it. Instead, she rests her head again his hip, her hand still resting lightly on the shaft of his cock. Donnie swallows as he props himself up on his elbows. The tails of his mask fall over one shoulder, and April hides her regret for not taking that off along with his wraps and pads by licking the crease of his thigh, where the skin is thin and flushed with warmth. 

_That_ gets his attention. 

"Oh," says Donnie, thunderstruck. 

He lets her push his thighs apart so she can rest between them, silent and watchful and just a little disbelieving as she adjusts her position and tries to ignore the persistent throb between her legs. Even the touch of his mind is subdued; April almost pulls the blankets off so she can read his face, but then she feels a tiny flare of emotion. Apprehension, yes, but barely a handful — what she feels most is _anticipation_. 

Good. She can work with that. 

She gives his cock a firm stroke — almost the way he touched himself, all those months ago, though she can't bring herself to be _that_ rough _, that_ careless, when even the lightest brush of her fingertips against the head of his cock has Donnie shivering and gasping. Then she bends her head, her mouth open just wide enough to take the tip between her lips. And there, she pauses, waiting, letting her breath warm the heavy, dark flesh in her hand. 

Donnie is absolutely still under her. His pulse thunders against her skin, where his thigh touches her arm, and a star-bright needle of want burns in his head, and hers. He's so present, so attuned to her every movement, as if his body reads her intentions before she even knows what they are; he trusts her, completely, unquestioningly, but under that bright gleam in his head is still that dark, lingering doubt. April can see it, far down in his gaze.

_Why me?_  

April doesn't have a quick answer. It's only been a few weeks, and so much between them is still new, as fresh and green as the first leaves of spring, and she hasn't yet found the voice or the words to tell Donnie that it could _only_ be him, and will only ever _be_ him, from now on. 

Of course it's him. All that growing up she did, all that learning and screwing up and trying again, it made her strong and it made her brave, and it made her into the person who deserved Donnie's faith and trust. This quiet, careful moment, with Donnie's body open to her and Donnie's mind waiting for her to take the next step, is just one way to show him that. 

_So stop wasting time, April, your boyfriend's waiting_. 

She takes a few seconds to smile up at him, her hand beginning its slow rhythm again. Donnie gasps, but manages a smile of his own, and brushes her cheek with his fingertips. 

"You know," she says. "I've waited a long time for this." And then, before Donnie can say a word, she slips her mouth over the head of his cock, her tongue already working at the slit. 

Donnie _wails_ , a sound cut short by him slapping a hand over his mouth, and the bright want bursts into warm, honey-sweet _pleasure_. April moans around his cock, the taste of salt filling her mouth, and tries not to writhe as Donnie moans into his hand. 

After that, she loses track of everything except the heavy weight on her tongue, and how Donnie tastes, and the noises Donnie's making. Somewhere, she's aware that he's using all his self-control not to thrust into her mouth, but she doesn't know if it's one of the currents flowing from his mind into her or the trembling muscles in his thighs. 

Does it matter? Not really. Not when she can slowly lower her mouth as far as it can go over Donnie's cock, and listen to the new, hungry noise he makes when the head of his cock hits the back of her throat. 

That's when his control breaks, ever so slightly. His hips thrust, not hard but insistent, and April gives up on keeping any kind of rhythm and lets Donnie control the pace while the tip of her tongue teases the thick vein running the length of his cock. 

She strokes his thigh with her free hand, a comfort and a tease, when he starts making loose, broken moans that sound like they're shaken out of him, and his thrusts slow, and then stop completely. 

The wet, throaty pop April makes as she pulls off of his cock sends a hot _zing_ straight through her clitoris. One touch is all it would take — but she ignores it, and watches Donnie's face. He's breathing hard, eyes a little glassy.

"Donnie?" she asks. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm —" He shuts his eyes and takes a long breath. At least, he tries to, but his breath catches halfway through and leaves him in a rush. "I don't want to — I'm close," he says, almost shyly. "And you shouldn't…" 

"You say that like I'm not waiting to find out what you taste like," April says, shocking herself — but more importantly, stunning Donnie into silence. It's true; she wants to taste him, to feel his come on her lips and skin. So she bends her head, lets her hair fall in a soft curtain over his thighs, and swallows his cock again. 

This time, she sets the pace herself, stroking every inch of Donnie's cock that won't fit into her mouth. Slow and steady, swirling her tongue around the head of his cock, sucking lightly at the cleft at the tip. She feels Donnie collapse back to the bed, his moans helpless as they get louder, and louder, and — 

Donnie lets out a hoarse cry that almost sounds like her name. The first stream hits the back of her throat, hot and thicker than she expected; April swallows on reflex, her eyes watering as Donnie keeps coming, each burst a spasm against her tongue. Now he's panting her name, thrusting weakly, and his hands tighten almost painfully in her hair. And still, he keeps coming, until April can't swallow fast enough. A few drops fall on her chin, then slip down her neck to settle in the hollow of her throat, but that's fine. A little mess is a fair exchange for the way Donnie's relaxed completely under her, tension ebbing away into nothing. 

She pulls away slowly, swiping a thumb under her lip to catch a stray drop of come, and stares down at Donnie. 

Donnie, who is a loose pile of turtle, still breathing hard, his eyes closed and his mouth open. His cock lies against one thigh, still half-hard and flushed dark. 

April inches into a crouch, and reaches out to stroke Donnie's thighs. He gasps, his cock twitching, then tries to say something that comes out as a indistinguishable murmur. 

"Donnie?" April asks, leaning close to hear better, and catching sight of a few long streaks of come against his plastron. Messy, messy. "Are you —" 

There, in the back of her head: utter silence. It's not a lack of feeling — far from it, it's too much feeling. Donnie's brain, that vast, amazing machine, has almost stopped for once. Sensory overload. 

"Do you need a minute?" she asks, knowing the answer before Donnie nods, his eyes still closed. "Okay. I'll be right back." 

He hums back at her as she eases off the bed — her legs don't seem to want to work, and the inside of her thighs are wet under her shorts — and lets his head loll on the pillow. But his eyes don't open, and that glimmer of _him_ in her head stays silent. Silent, and stunned. 

April makes her slow way to the sink, and splashes a few handfuls of cool water on her cheeks before soaking a cloth and cleaning her neck and face. The candle burned out a while ago; in the dark, April only sees the vague shape of her silhouette, not her freckles, or her hair, or the scars littered over her body. _Good_ , she thinks, soaking another cloth in warm water. _Then Donnie won't have to see them either._  

She doesn't want to hide them — they're hers, earned over the years, and they mark her as a survivor. But to Donnie, they're proof of all the times he didn't work hard enough, or fast enough, and guilt is the last thing April wants him to feel tonight. 

Let tonight be about how she's found one more way to show him she loves him.  

On the way back to the bed, she nearly trips over the wraps she tossed so carelessly aside, and swears under her breath. Donnie stirs, and half-sits, blinking sleepy eyes at her before she pushes him back down on the bed. 

"You…" he begins, then gives up as she sits down next to him and cleans his plastron in slow, gentle movements. "April," he says, eyes sliding closed. 

"I'm here," she says. She balls up the cloth and tosses it toward the laundry bin, then swings both legs under her. "I'm not going anywhere." 

Donnie makes a pleased noise, and lifts one hand to stroke her bare arm. April shivers, the residual desire still pulsing under her skin, but decides the idea of curling up next to Donnie's sleepy, protective bulk is much more appealing than finishing what she started. There'll be other nights for that. Many, many nights. 

As she reaches for her shirt, Donnie makes a muffled sound of protest, then goes silent. "Sorry," he says. "I just." 

"We _did_ generate a fair amount of heat," April says lightly, grinning when Donnie huffs a laugh at her and tugs her down to the bed. 

She's right; the room is warm, even with Donnie's cool plastron pressed to her back. One of his hands cups her breast, so shyly, as if he still can't believe he's allowed this intimacy, and so carefully, as if he doesn't want to hurt her. But he never has, and he never will. 

“Don’t you --” An impressive yawn interrupts whatever Donnie is trying to say; while he’s recovering, April nestles closer, and weaves her feet between his ankles. “I want…you know. For you.” The hand on her breast shifts lower, his thumb grazing her nipple, and an answering shiver of pleasure follows his touch. 

The thought is tempting -- _beyond_ tempting. Donnie is a genius, and attentive, and he loves her. All very, very good things, but they can wait. 

“I’m fine,” she says, grinning when he makes a protesting noise into her hair. “I can wait. This was...wonderful.” 

Donnie shivers, his heart skipping a little against her back. “But you --” 

“Think of it this way,” April says, turning her head to kiss his cheek. “Now you have a whole day to plan your revenge.” 

The echo in her head is lit with delight, and a sly sense of _planning_. “You’re perfect, you know,” Donnie says, his voice thick. 

_No, you are,_ April tries to say, but she only laughs, then yawns herself as Donnie hugs her tighter. 

_I'll tell him tomorrow_ , she thinks, smiling as she starts to doze. _And the next day, and the one after that too._

The last thing she feels as she falls asleep is Donnie kissing the nape of her neck, the knob at the top of her spine, and the scar on her shoulder, his mouth shaping her name. 


End file.
